


those that mind don't matter, and those that matter don't mind.

by radialDespair



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Trans Female Character, Trans Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 14:31:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11038122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialDespair/pseuds/radialDespair
Summary: Harry Potter's life is irrevocably changed after a particularly strong piece of accidental magic in the summer of 4th year, reveals that she isn't the *boy*-who-lived.





	those that mind don't matter, and those that matter don't mind.

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is a thing. Mainly just a plot bunny, though I imagine I took inspiration from somewhere - pretty sure I've read a fanfic with this premise. But I read a lot of Harry Potter fanfic, so I could be mistaken.
> 
> *shrugs*
> 
> Regardless, I rather hope you enjoy it.

Harry stared blankly at the wall of his bedroom, eyes glassy.

He hadn’t known Cedric. But there it was, every time he shut his eyes. Cedric, flying, staring unseeingly into the sky.

It was Harry’s fault he had died. If Harry hadn’t been there, this would never have happened. But he had. And he would keep having to be there, every time. He could see that. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, would never escape from what he had to do. Who he had to kill.

His head fell to his hands, and he stifled a scream of frustration and fear. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived any more. He wanted to be himself.

Harry threw himself onto his pillow, tears streaking down his face. It was a long time before sleep claimed him.

 

Harry woke as the sun broke through his window, shining golden on his face. Something was different. Not _wrong_ , but different. Like someone had removed a stone from his shoe. A stone that had been there so long that he had forgotten it was there. The loss of discomfort was almost a discomfort in and of itself.

He stretched, his arms clicking noisily, and he fumbled with his glasses for a moment. Dudley’s old pyjamas seemed somehow even looser than they had been the day before. Harry yawned, blinking blearily. He rubbed at his eye with his hand, and swept a loose curl of hair behind his ear, absently. As he blinked the last of the sleep from his eyes, and threw a sideways glance at the cracked glass of his mirror – it was in the room of broken things after Dudley punched it – Harry realised all at once what had happened.

Staring back at him in the cracked mirror, was a girl. She looked tired, her black hair long and messy, her green eyes framed by shadows, and still faintly red with tears. That was him. His mind struggled with the information, sluggish as it was in the morning. It didn’t feel normal. But it didn’t feel wrong – and wasn’t that a strange thing to think. He shook his head, tried to clear his thoughts. He moved closer to the mirror, touching his face hesitantly. His fingers were thinner, and his face smoother, more feminine.  
  
His eyes, though. His eyes remained a piercing green. That comforted him in a vague, indistinct sense.

It was him. He could tell that much. This must be some sort of magical accident. Or a curse. Maybe someone had slipped him a potion.

The meaty thud of a fist hitting the door made Harry jump.  
  
“Boy! Wake up!” Harry surmised, quite correctly, that Uncle Vernon wanted his breakfast.  
  
“Bone idle, just like his father…”  
  
Harry sighed – a jarringly feminine sound – as he began to dress.

Where before, Dudley’s castoffs had been a challenge, they were now downright impossible. They were not only too large, but shaped entirely wrong. 

Wincing internally, knowing this would worsen an already poor situation, Harry opened his trunk.

Knowing full well that it would antagonise them, but also that turning up in pyjamas, or – god forbid – naked would be far worse, Harry began to root through his trunk, looking for the one set of clothes that he had any hope of fitting into.

At the end of the Tri-wizard Tournament, after Cedric had died, when Fudge had almost had a breakdown, it had been decided that – for the sake of fostering a communal spirit between the schools, et cetera et cetera, they would have a photo, where they all gave one another the stuff they had worn for the first or second task. No, Harry didn’t know why. He imagined it was Ludo Bagman’s idea – apparently Quidditch player did it after a good game. Harry wouldn’t know; for all he enjoyed Quidditch, he had only watched the one match.

And there it was. Scrunched up at the bottom of his trunk, still a little scorched, and thus far wholly ignored, was Fleur Delacour’s skirt and hoodie.

They weren’t precisely the right size, but they were much better than anything _else_ Harry had available. He felt less uncomfortable than he thought he should have. Not comfortable; he was acutely aware that things would get bloody hairy when he walked into the kitchen, but more comfortable than he thought entirely proper. He was a boy. Boys don’t like skirts.

He grabbed his wand from the bedside table, and, slipped it into the pouch of Fleur’s hoodie, as he set off downstairs. He was lighter on his feet after that; not that he was ever particularly heavy on them; Harry-hunting engendered a certain flightiness that never quite left him.

He pushed open the door to the kitchen with one hand, the other curled around his wand nervously.

 

Uncle Vernon was reading the Newspaper and Dudley was busily inhaling his cereal. So, it was Aunt Petunia that noticed Harry come in. She dropped the glass she was holding. It shattered. Orange juice mixed with glass shards, covering the floor of the kitchen.

 “Are you one of his freakish friends? You aren’t allowed here after last time! Th-they promised! Get out!” Her face was drawn in what Harry realised was terror.

"I… Aunt Petunia, I’m Harry. I don’t understand what’s happened.” His voice was undeniably female. Like his previous voice, as Ginny’s was to Ron’s. But not the same.

The back of Uncle Vernon’s neck had turned an unattractive shade of purple that Harry had never seen before. He got up, towering over Harry.

“You… you’re lying. The boy put you up to this, didn’t he? You’re one of those freaks!” Uncle Vernon was furious, spittle flying everywhere. “We don’t want your kind near our Dudders, y’hear!”  
  
Harry pushed his fringe aside, revealing his scar.  
  
Aunt Petunia let out a little ‘oh’ of shock. Uncle Vernon went white.

“Get out. Get out now. We accepted your freakiness, but this… deviancy, is disgusting!”  
  
Aunt Petunia gathered herself. “We feed you, gave you a bed, a roof over your head, and this is how you repay us? But flaunting your deviancy?! Your freakishness! Go. You aren’t welcome here!”

Harry blinked in shock and a - small - amount of regret.

 

The next few minutes were a blur of shouting; Uncle Vernon – tears; Aunt Petunia – and getting punched in the stomach when no one was looking; Dudley, though Dudley always hit him, so that wasn’t news. Ten minutes after going down stairs, though, he was dragging his case along the garden path, leaving number 4, Privet Drive for the last time. It was drizzling, so he pulled the hood up on Fleur’s jumper.

He dragged his case along the street, away from prying eyes. Harry's mind had been going crazy, and he took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He was alone in the world, abandoned by his family, and ignored by his friends, on the streets. He needed to think logically about what to do. Think like Hermione.

This was just like Third Year. He just had to stick his wand out, and the Knight Bus would come to take him to the Leaky Cauldron, and he could work out what to do from there. Just make sure no one’s looking.

He pulled his wand from his hoodie, and thrust it out into the street expectantly, and waited. And waited. And waited.

After a minute, he felt self-conscious. After 5, he was concerned. After 10, he finally lowered the wand.

Something was wrong. With the bus, with his wand, or with him, he didn’t know. But this wasn’t working. He forced himself to stay calm, as his breath grew shallow.

Hedwig pecked at the bars of her cage. Harry looked at her.

“Oh, you beautiful, clever girl!”

Sirius. He would send Hedwig to Sirius, and he would come and get Harry, and...

And what? What would happen to him then? His thoughts returned to the Dursleys, to Uncle Vernon. 

As it began to rain more heavily, Harry realised that he didn’t have a choice, unless he wanted to sleep on the streets.

Using the trunk as a shield to keep his letter out of the rain as best he could, Harry scrawled a note to Sirius, explaining he was thrown out by the Dursleys, tying the note to Hedwig’s leg. She gave him a reassuring peck, and flew off, faster than usual. Harry watched her leave, supposing that she was eager to get somewhere warm; hoping that wherever Sirius was, it had a roof. And a shower. Maybe a bed. His stomach grumbled, and Harry nodded. And some food would be nice.

Harry hunched over miserably as water trickled down his neck.

Time passed. Harry couldn’t say how much, he just knows it passed. The alleyway he took shelter in did little and less to stop the rain, and he was thoroughly soaked by the time Hedwig winged her way around the corner, stopping to hover over his head as Remus Lupin turned into the alley

“Harry, thank god! I’m so glad I’ve… found… you...?“ he trailed off, pulling his wand from his pocket.

“I don’t know who you are, but if you don’t tell me what’s happened to Harry Potter in the next couple of minutes, then I won’t be held responsible for what happens next.”

Harry swallowed.

**Author's Note:**

> She doesn't fully understand what's going on, and she hasn't come to terms with it, hence the pronouns, if anyone was particularly bothered.
> 
> And her name will not be staying Harry Potter forever, if that's a sticking point for anyone.


End file.
